14 x 5
by ivybluesummers
Summary: MitKo vignettes.
1. Light Shines Heavy

'_Ol pal of my heart_ is from Jamie O'Neill's book 'At Swim, Two Boys'; the places mentioned are in Kamakura, a part of Kanagawa. Standard disclaimers apply.

* * *

**Light Shines Heavy**

Blinded little questions that Kiminobu Kogure could not answer, fresh ghetto lights from the Tsurugaoka-hachiman-gu shrine escaped at the picturesque sight embellished by the merry thoughts of the brown-eyed. Having to be the same, cherry blossoms that promenaded the foyer of the shrine looked like daffodils at the sentiments jazzing up Kiminobu's psyche; darkness was already spilling through the firmament and everything else underneath – traditionally crafted stores have sprung up before the lad could even notice, people on their postmodern garbs passing his solitude by. Kiminobu smiled softly at the snowflakes crying out from the azure sky, embroidered by the platinum beauty of moonbeams cracking at the dawn of the stars. He sat there waiting for no one but himself, with answers that remained stopping time as though the brown-eyed had left himself somewhere between stillness and shifting preoccupation.

On the length to find more wealthy meanings to think of, transcending beyond his experience, Kiminobu Kogure thought of memories within memories, swirling helplessly to create joints of conception unimaginable. And he can't help standing on something, asking forgiveness to people of imaginary realms, of images that flicker right about everywhere in his sight.

Suddenly coldness turned warmth at the sight of his 'ol pal of his heart. Hisashi Mitsui came striding swiftly like it wasn't walking at all. Dandelion pretty daffodils are clung and with a few more steps both exchanged blushes at the sight of neon lights starting to rise above the canopies. Leaving the half-life, fugitives from the phenomenon of social possibilities unknown to their acquaintances, Hisashi and Kiminobu strolled with chimera notorious only for them both.

"Sorry,"

"It's okay, I'm just early," Kiminobu said warmly and it melted the snows that have lodged Hisashi's coat and scarf, even his blue-black tresses, too.

Flares of light flickered at the iridescent ambience. Christmas never felt complemented this way, both thought; cherry blossoms bordered the dim-lighted streets of Kamakura with endless songs bound to waltz people eternally – piano touches, guitar mixes and lovely voices echoing at the spatial phenomenon of everyone's existence – Christmas was filled with perfection, or at least that is what 'ol pal of each other's hearts deemed. Solitude crept mutually at them and they were in pavements secretly hidden at the masks of hypocritical and dogmatic people who hated open-mindedness.

Hisashi Mitsui held the other's hand, stretching as they delicately take each step of waltz, refined jazz of suppleness and gentle whispering of nonsense words, endlessly waltzing, almost touching...

Blue eyes responded at the unbearable warmth of brown hues at the axis of his sight. Delicate skin glowed in the moonbeams and sensually soothed Mitsui, and at the back of his mind, he can picture himself sitting on the benches of Shohoku gymnasium, head resting on his palm, barely breathing, thinking only of nothing but seeing those serene yet distant brown eyes that meant of sincerity and innocence.

"I won't wish the lot... when you're not," he whispered, closing his eyes only to feel the other's head snuggling against.

Kiminobu Kogure smells of winter aroma and masculine musk, of drenched cherry blossoms, of rushes of blood at the moment happening before he can decipher it. Whether or not answers lay inches away from him it didn't matter, as everything's the same in the end; looking for answers in this life has been taking us away from our novel genesis, our light and darkness that shine heavy on us and everything else beyond it.

And they danced the night away, whispering to each other that everything will be okay. Like they promised. Fresh ghetto lights and moonbeams slithered pass their souls and it was everything all they could ask for.

"Merry Christmas," both said, laughing softly at the coincidence of welcoming Christmas at the very same time.


	2. February Cliché

Danzakura St. is a lane that leads to the shrine which is actually on Kamakura, Kanagawa. Some references to Cowboy Bebop and Maria Rilke.

* * *

**February Cliché**

He thinks he knows. He doesn't think he knows. He doesn't think he thinks he knows. He doesn't think he thinks. As irrational as it was, Hisashi Mitsui could not decipher the sentiments that have been endlessly waltzing, much more if it were from the heart, or from the mind. It was beautiful though – semantically; beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which both of them still are able to endure.

Like any tangible aspect in his decisive mentality, overworked auxiliaries of luminosity have started burning like fire; there, on Danzakura pavements where cherry petals continuously disband like sentimental confetti's, Hisashi Mitsui reflectively was sure that February clichés like this, as negatively derivative as it seemed, astounds even the most oblivious.

It was getting dark but his transcendence was beyond his concept of the opposites; human contradictions don't apply to humans after all – his idyllic anxiety could be gibberish to some but he never entertained such preposterous ethic. Moonbeams are starting to stretch their gaze, personified entities killed by their curiosity to behold an exposition of sexual open-mindedness. The moon was platinum, crescent like broken smiles; February fourteen has dyed the world red, he noticed – and Hisashi could only wonder in its etymology. Keepsakes that go in pairs sprouted like fairies of mushrooms, fluttering from one merchant to another. It was just like Christmas – on Tsurugaoka-hachiman-gu shrine – when light shone heavy on them.

Hisashi remembered his injured knee; it was nursed back from an accident, but it already was smudged with consequential negativity – which took two years to be exact – and since then he thought he was living both past and present; he thought he was only seeing patches of reality.

Out of the blue, however, tribulations were solved and questions were answered soon as Kiminobu Kogure came walking towards him like it wasn't walking at all. Personal effects are wrapped not only in decorated papers but also with a pure feeling understood both of reason and heart. Hisashi was butter then, melting amidst the moonbeams even though coldness was biting. "Sorry I'm late 'Sashi-kun," and they exchanged gifts like barter then.

"T'was okay." Hisashi though didn't dare utter those words; such encumbered words saddle his psyche down not because of disinterest – his intentions are the most sincere – but because of his concern of his sexual ego's nutrition.

Both sat down on the bench and just savored each other's company. Fireworks never complemented this night but it was all good – cherry blossoms encircled the Danzakura asphalts going to Tsurugaoka-hachiman-gu shrine where people leave solitude at their axis with companionship, intimate or not; giggles are celestial on their ears, almost tempting them. And so they strolled; everything was public but the two has come across confidentiality nonetheless. Somehow, it all seemed clear now for Hisashi. His delusion from reality have lurched his rationalizations, those moments with Kiminobu are the ones that testified genuine experiences. Blue-black eyes could not answer back then at the strike of chocolate ones; dainty embodiments of their bodies glowed as few birds perch finally at the entrance of the shrine.

For the first time from their societal phobia, thriving finally like Rilke, Hisashi held Kiminobu's hand – zeal in its exploit – and entered the shrine with emotional promises to be fulfilled. "Happy Valentines, Kimi-kun,"


	3. Red Windfall

It's the timeline where Kogure made that three-point shot against Ryonan in the finals. May be off due to its allusions.

* * *

**Red Windfall**

The circularity of that red-hued rubber seamlessly fluttered amidst the sweat-soaked ambience of the air inside such gymnasium; voices were distant in ways KIminobu Kogure could not settle upon, in endlessness that seemed to be finite at the depths of his novel genesis. The four others, whose smiles were broken but optimistic nonetheless, had their consciousness threading the phenomena of time and space, as slowly-paced as it seemed. At fractions of heartbeats, of passing moments that transcend in the totality of the universe – between past, present and unfathomable future, Kogure had remembered it right.

Years and years ago, Kogure had his innocence; Kiminobu had his ways of overcoming the futility of his body and transcending the faculties of his will, where he shared dreams of probable impossibilities like genuine wars between hearts and minds, between surrender and rebirth. Years ago, he aspired to be a part of a thrived society hungry for glory; he aspired of having a boisterous ego in the path of such affair without losing humility. He aspired of Japan having its locus of emancipated search for victory onto the very family he had, the very family that created a universe of brotherhood for all of them.

And he dreamed this with Hisashi Mitsui despite the emotional terrorists that bore through the tusks of his sentimental existence; they dreamed encompassing possibilities in the future they both can share. They dreamed of defeating the metaphysic infinity of time and space, the inevitability of death and the reek of orthodox mindset; they dreamed of overcoming the essence of infinity itself through their foundation of ardor, they very one thing that coagulated and resembled them together in spite of all those emotional interventions.

And this, in the end, they consider a windfall.

The voices were impeccable amidst its noise, shattering glasses of breakthrough and novel phenomena as the ball coiled near the ring, impassive from any Ryonan-derived negativity as it finally entered, the thick thread below mingling as to make a quick yet slight hum of victory on Shohoku; Kiminobu Kogure smiled, and three point shot it was.

Like bullets that pierce the existence of his invented essence, Kogure heard more voices that quaked the depths of his mind. "Good shot megane!", Kogure had heard Hanamichi, and in all these moments, it was an emotional advantage. It was a conflagrating commotion for the Shohoku then; fuzziness was solace as Mitsui fumble with Kogure's velvety brown tresses.

And lastly – he wont dare forget that performative utterance – Kogure heard Mitsui whisper, "A reward." What it was he needed not to forebode; it's all good in the most innate way.


End file.
